


The Consulting Administrator

by sherlockian_quiet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, crackfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-06 21:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5431583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian_quiet/pseuds/sherlockian_quiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, recently returned from the battlefield of apprenticeship, finds that the dullness of office life does not abate depression. What does, however, is the brilliance of consulting administrator Sherlock Holmes. [Office!AU] [Part-crackfic, part-canon]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Beige

Chapter 1

The story launches in with a BANG CRACK-CRACK BANG-BANG CRACK of pure, complacency-shattering action. With a distracting volume of sound in tow, the world fills with the opaque blur of paperwork, jumping from image to image – papers, logbooks, fax machines, signatures. A man’s face swims into view and rolls aside restlessly. His eyes are closed. This typically means sleep, particularly due to the lengthy nature of their being shut, but to jump to conclusions is to give up the raw goodness of logic that your mother gave you.  
“John!”  
A distant, panicked voice. Designed to be eerie – make you leery. Manipulate your fear-y.  
“John, help me! John!”  
Paper. Logbook. Fax machine. Signature.  
The man wakes. 

It happens really dramatically. He opens his eyes – drama. He sits – crazy. He sits in a room with brown on all sides. Brown everywhere. Brown, brown, brown. It’s really minimalistic and I admire it and also I admire him. But enough about brown. He wears a brown suit and sits at a brown desk. His expression is blue, however. Letting the team down.  
Speaking of letting the team down, it is viewed as significantly unprofessional to fall asleep at your desk. Particularly in an office during your work shift. Fortunately, the only witness present is Human Relations officer Ella, who sits opposite him at their sad, brown desk.  
“Hello,” John said. That is his name: John. In case you did not already surmise. He is a polite man. Therefore: hello. He said hello. In case you did not already surmise.  
“Are you depressed?” asked Ella.  
An unconventional greeting, but John accepts it. His eyes wander to the surface of his desk. There is a stapler there that could be useful for his purposes. A good shot at one of his veins would suffice.  
He reaches for it, nudging aside perfectly sharp scissors in the process. Ella also reaches. She gets there first because she is athletic. She played volleyball as a child and ended up in the regional championships. This is a good achievement as she lived in quite a rural area, but also not good because a kidney burst during the final round and she could not reach a hospital in time to repair most of the damage. She will never walk again. 

“I’m not sure how those are connected,” John said. His eyes flicked to the window. It was a notable drop. Perhaps he could step upon the ledge, spread his arms and fall forward. Blood would run from his across his face onto the pavement. But for some reason, the idea repulsed him. As he considered this reaction, Ella discreetly took down the window and hid it behind some desks.  
“I suppose I am,” John replied, as she again took her seat.  
She pursed her lips. I am not sure how people manage this, but I’m sure you can envision it if you’ve read Harry Potter enough times.  
“John. You’re an administrator. It’s going to take you a while to adapt to salesperson life. And writing in a logbook about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.”  
Here it comes. I know you’ve got the words in your head. John hasn’t even said them yet and you know it. Why don’t you give him a chance to spit it out before you go thieving the words from his mouth?  
“Nothing happens to me.”  
There you go, John. How very witty. And very soon, how very wrong.


	2. The Amateur Introvert

“John! John Watson!”  
The man in question – if you didn’t realise, which is completely fine by the way, the man in question is John Watson – turned to see an old colleague of his. To be precise, he had seen him immediately earlier while walking down the hallway, but because he a Bitter and Reminiscent temperament, he didn’t really want to put up with socialising.  
But he didn’t initiate a move like a seasoned introvert – namely, turning abruptly on his heel and limping away rapidly, face etched with the self-loathing of a man retrieving a crucial forgotten item. Instead, being new to the sport, he continued on his path and hoped to heaven that Mr Stamford did not perceive him.  
“John!”  
He did. In case you did not realise. Which is completely fine. By the way.  
“Oh, Mike, hi,” John said, with as much sincerity as he could fake. (M*A*S*H reference! *cries at how inactive the M*A*S*H fandom is nowadays*)  
“That was pretty mean,” Stamford informed him.  
“Don’t mention it,” John said.  
“Yeah, I’m not going to.” And he didn’t.  
Stamford was sort of pudgy, but in a nice way.  
“I know, I got fat,” he pointed out.  
John made a half-hearted attempt to placate him, but to be honest, it suited him. Maybe John could have seen that too if he wasn’t so miserable. (Quick shout-out to the John/Stamford shippers.)  
“Everyone has already seen this exchange about a hundred times,” Stamford continued, “so I’ll just cut to the chase. You’re being evicted from your brown office.”  
“That wasn’t in the series,” John protested.  
Stamford leaned in close. “Plot twist,” he whispered. And he kissed John on the cheek.  
John did not notice. He never did.  
“I can’t afford to live in London on an apprenticeship pension,” he moaned.  
“And you can’t bear to live anywhere else,” Stamford conciliated. “Not the John Watson I – ”  
“Yes, yes, we all know it,” John interrupted. “We know A Study in Pink off by heart. Let’s save some time and this poor writer’s hands; they’re aching, and you know she’s a hypochondriac.”  
“You’re the second person who’s said that to me today.”  
John made eye contact for maybe the first time. Stamford’s poor heart soared.  
“Who was the first?”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Yeah, I have literally nothing to say. But I always love these little bolded notes at the end of chapters, giving some cute insight into the author’s busy schedule and accomplished life. Now I feel professional, like this is a professional story. A professional story that degrades the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson to administrators. Sigh. My life is in order.


End file.
